


HotShot

by KKSunny



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Angst and Humor, Car Accidents, Humor, M/M, Police, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 13:33:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KKSunny/pseuds/KKSunny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They had nothing better to do. Castiel is a virgin and Dean wants to fix that - by going to a strip joint again (second time's the charm, right?). Little does Cas know that alcohol actually puts people in danger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	HotShot

**Author's Note:**

> Pardon the fact that I used British terminology, despite how American the show is, though it's recorded in Canada.
> 
> None of these characters belong to me. Story was inspired by season 5 episode 3 "Free to be You and Me." Had motivational help from a friend to keep me writing and never giving up on this story. Props to her.

The night was young and so were they - and all that crap. And actually, it was midday and they had nothing better to do. A couple rounds of cheap bourbon and whiskey, gin and tonics, and whatever else Dean Winchester could afford at the local mini mart. The weather chilled the windows and froze the wooden seats and tables: an AC was locked underneath the glass pane, expecting summer weather, but no one dared to touch it. No one complained, either. Nice and toasty; buzzing with alcohol, smiling like idiots. Well - besides Castiel. Castiel didn’t find the humour in this game. In fact, he was more or less perplexed, but Dean stared him down, draining a row of shots, holding a straight face to the least of his ability. He nodded toward Cas, gave him the flag and within seconds, his glasses were empty and face-down. Not a muscle moved nor twitched. Almost as if he simply absorbed the liquid needles.  
  
Sam, although sensed the jovial nature of the event, decided on a wiser notion to retire early before he got too inebriated, despite the encouraging chants from his older brother Dean. Cas sat quietly in front of the boisterous man, sitting still as if he never consumed a drink in his entire life. Hey - he is an ‘angel of the Lord’, after-all. Do the effects of alcohol even remotely move them? Dean never thought to ask: he was too busy enjoying the mini two-person party. He quickly refilled both their empty glasses with whiskey while Cas didn’t objectify or accept: just sat there, concentrating on Dean’s sweeping hands. They left weightless trails of fleshy peach-colour behind them as they moved and danced through the air and at once a beverage manifested under his nose.  
  
“You know,” Cas glanced up, with his trade-mark scowl painted between his brows, Dean squinting one eye at him. “I know you’re an angel and all,” he paused and took a small swig and twirled his index finger at Cas “And I, uh… Yeah you never seem different about it.”  
  
Cas resisted the temptation to immediately respond. His scowl only grew deeper, introspectively analysing Dean’s words. Of course angels are different, Cas thought critically, what does this have to do with the human beverage in front of me? Is the way I drink so different from his kind?  
  
The sound of the creaking table breaks Cas’ scrutiny. Dean appeared much closer than he had previously, finger remaining erect and mock accusatory. “You’re so far from being human, yet you mingle around people like me and Sam-”  
  
“That’s because I have sworn duty to-”  
  
“No,” Dean urged; a mix of intoxicated anger and fear sculpting his features “Remember that one time in that alley? No. No you have no ‘sworn duty from God’ - that’s a bunch of fairy tale _bullshit_. You’re just sitting in front of me now because you want to be. Because you don’t want to see a bad ending in all this.  
  
“…I guess that’s human enough…” Dean supposed after a brief pause, leaning back into his seat with hunky-dory and acquiesce countenance. Castiel, still sitting erect and proper, waited a moment, studying his companion’s words; unable to make heads or tails of whatever had been expressed from Dean’s mood-swinging mouth. The man’s eyes clicked onto the angel predatorily, not giving any mind to anything else; not caring if Castiel returned the askance.  
  
“But Cas: someone could write an entire novel about all your…superficial mannerisms, you know what I’m saying?” For once since this conversation had started, a sincere smile enraptured Dean’s lips. It could almost be considered charming or whatever humans use to describe their attraction whether platonic or otherwise. He took another sip and sighed contentedly, glancing out the window which was over Cas’ shoulder. Sam sat on his side of the bed, posing as the off-attraction, facing away from the party, typing at his laptop, tuning out the world around him. _His hair sure is getting long…_  
  
Dean dragged his eyes across the room as if he’s never seen it before until landing again onto Castiel whose gaze had obviously never detached from him. A frown tugged at his lips.  
  
“Cas,” Dean began strongly and mock seriously “You don’t drink - not enough to get you wasted, at least - you don’t have sex - never have, last time I checked - and you don’t get scars, despite how many wounds you’ve gotten from battle. You’re a marvel!” He exclaimed, opening his arms wide in celebration. A wall of seriousness tidal-waved over Dean and he was leaning toward Cas again. “ _I_ get wasted,” he urged, pointing the tip of his hand at his chest “ _I_ have sex, and _I_ have battle scars.” Then he paused, his eyes scanning over invisible text until he finally looked back at Castiel incredulously. “Do you actually _have_ scars? …Like, ‘cause I just made that up.”  
  
Without delay, Dean stood and disturbed Cas from his stationary position; pinching at his beige trench coat, whining “Let me see!” while the angel made the human initiative to resist in pushing and kicking. This made Dean laugh, though not deterred by the action: the coat’s sleeve unhooked from Cas’ shoulder, revealing half of his clean suit until finally the shorter of the two men hastily pointed out “This is a violation of Jimmy’s privacy, Dean. I plead that you stop immediately.”  
  
Oddly enough, the supply from the demand produced quickly, albeit reluctantly, as Dean prohibited his advance and huffed something inaudible as Cas rightly fixed his sleeve. Standing alone in deep waters, Dean felt the need to be careful with his next words. He eyed the disgruntled angel. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”  
  
“Dean… that formula of logic doesn’t make sense when regarding the previous event.” Cas responded slowly to start, but hasted by the end, in point of fact after a brief stint of analysis and confusion.  
  
Dean sighed with needed exaggeration while rolling his eyes. “Fine, _hotshot_. Have it your way.” He paused and ran his tongue along the side of his molars, contemplating. Then he looked back at Cas, eyes brewing with mischief. “Wanna see mine?”  
  
Before Castiel could react, Dean’s shirt and jacket were already on the floor. A shirtless man with a noticeable anti-possession tattoo on his upper left pectoral stood with childish frivolity, first scanning his stomach and chest for any collection of gunshot wounds or scratches from his several encounters with demons, and Leviathans, vampires, ghosts, and rougarou. The diary of skin impairments bloomed before both Dean and Cas. Yet the bright red impression of a hand print on his left bicep glowed like a neon sign.  
  
Castiel stirred in his seat, staring away from Dean: at nothing, like a doll; anxiety choking his composure. Dean spotted this rustled behaviour and, having the floor, smiled gratefully. He merged back into his clothes and announced with pride “I’m taking you to the strip club down the road, near the casino.”  
  
His reaction was slow: Castiel peered up like an animal fallen ill, greatly clouded at the terms until his brows twitched, the meaning registering within him. He stirred again in distraught, images from their last voyage to a strip joint filing through his mind. His suddenly dehydrated lips parted, contemplating objection. Before any action could be had, Dean already fixed Cas out of his seat and together they scampered out the motel door, leaving Sam to his own devices. _He doesn’t care for them anyway._  
  
Now, Castiel is, of course, an angel with divine powers that greatly diminish all human ability. One of his more annoying powers is teleportation: Dean’s obvious favourite. And although the inebriated Dean Winchester forcibly escorted Castiel to the Impala, the thought of escape didn’t even cross his mind. They climbed in without any restriction though an immense amount of doubt and demurral had Cas by the throat.  
  
“Got to get you wasted and purge that virginity, Cas: for good” Dean listed adamantly, staring out at the road in veneration, sitting far too relaxed “It is my ‘sworn duty.’” He mocked and laughed obnoxiously. Castiel sat stock-still, staring out at the void, inwardly blacklisting the environment and their location of interest. I have every opportunity to leave, he thought. But he wouldn’t take it: almost refused to leave this man behind. He is, after-all, brimming with alcohol. Perhaps enough that his eyesight is not impaired and the stories of the typical behaviour of drunken hairless apes have yet to take effect?  
  
Still, there was some invisible force keeping Castiel in the passenger’s seat.

* * *

They adopted a seat at a small table by the wall, not too far from the back room for customers and escorts. Each table had one lit candle in the centre and dim lights drooping from the ceiling closer than what’s considered comfortable. Outside in the car park, the Impala waited for their return, shiny and beautiful, the entrance only metres away. The soft glow of the neon sign depicted the outline of three of the same naked blonde woman bending over; bathed the immediate area, including the hood of the Impala in yellow and red hues.  
  
Inside, Dean ordered both him and Cas a beer to pass the time as they watched the stage drowning in scantily-clad women and dollar bills tickling at their stilettoes. Women infested the entire room; on the stage and on the floor, serving drinks and winks in the dim lighting. A variety of friendly eyes, caked in make-up of all shades, ran over the man in the clean black suit who hadn’t touched his drink since he received it. The man sitting across from him looked at his mate knowingly, downing his beverage, over-excited to retort.  
  
“She totally gave you the Look,” Dean smiled ardently, still holding his glass, swirling the remaining contents habitually and ignoring the flummoxed stare stabbing into him “Man, with your looks; you could have all these women, guaranteed.” He took a thimbleful.  
  
Cas sat just like in the motel and the first and last time he was situated in this similar scenario. Stiff and bug-eyed and hoping this experience ends quickly. He had his hands resting on his taut lap, rubbing thumb-on-thumb beneath the table, mimicking the human ritual that supposedly eases their anxieties. Why do they do this? There is no apparent result of alleviation—  
  
“Excuse me, Miss,” A woman, freshly reeled in, wearing nothing but lingerie (which was candidly stuffed with dollar bills), approached Dean’s end of the table, first spotting Cas, then Dean who pointed back at the well-dressed fellow before him. She smiled coquettishly - She puts off a warm familial air about her, yet she knows no one at this table…  
  
“What could I do you, boys?” She asked, her Texan accent very apparent, glancing between her selection. Dean, looking up from a malcontent Cas, smiled for the both of them.  
  
“This is my friend,” He began strongly, though the alcohol bubbled into his speech a little and he yielded “He’s - uh… new to this sort of thing. Why not you take him into your little gingerbread house and give him some sweets?”  
  
The woman laughed at this and eyed Castiel, making it obvious she likes what she sees, as if he were a diamond to a treasure hunter. Of course, Cas doesn’t return the notion but scurries to his feet when a shoe collides into his shin which his knee thumps into the table. Her hand ghosts around his wrist without question and as they make their way past the tables to the back room, Dean slips the angel a hundred directly into his inner pocket. No time for questions. The mating ritual is about to begin.  
  
The couple entered a small rectangular room with thin walls and a single illuminated lamp in one corner. Once the door closed, the lascivious noises were muffled, albeit still clear enough to recognise. She sits first, patting the empty spot on the bed beside her and asks with her chest displayed like pearls “What do you want to do first?”  
  
The sharp stench of semen and perfume clogged Castiel’s nostrils though he disregarded it as any sort of warning. From his stance at the door, he stared down at her critically, analysing her face; her soul; her past: Crammed with drugs and sex. Not much has changed since, sharing similarities with many trollops in places like this; their father walked out on them, usually during their youth. The ruby lips of the woman twitched - Nervously, if Cas were to put his mind to it.  
  
“Come on, Big Boy,” She beckoned, relaxing into the leopard-print sheets. “I want to give you some of my treats.” She gave him a seductive wink and instantly, Cas freezes. There is no way in Heaven he is about to make the step toward this sinful woman. He doesn’t even know a thing about mating rituals! Sure, the pizza man was a good example but what was the purpose? Cas is an angel (of the Lord): not some callous incubus. No. He will not - he will _never_ stoop that low.  
  
The woman stands up, smoothly but impatient, and hooks her arms around Castiel’s neck and plants her wet mouth against his. One-sided and sloppy, she tries to escort the angel into a pit of ecstasy: cupping Jimmy’s erection and rubbing his chest. She wants him on the bed. She wants the money (of course), but upon the very sight of this fellow, she’s hot and full of sudden lust. Her hands, her body and her ruby lips escort him forward, but he isn’t so easily let off guard. Her kisses were weak and impetuous: they were unappealing. However, she was demanding and the tie had slipped from his collar and already she was working to rid his blazer. Nothing could stop this bull-dozer.  
  
Nothing could distract him less. His vessel’s heart leapt and he took it as a signal. The broad surfaced for air, and although it counted only as seconds before she dived back in, her mouth met air. That vessel of warmth and temptation had left, more instantly than a bird fleeing from oncoming traffic.  
  
Castiel, the angel of Thursday, flew and perched elsewhere, in fear or in obligation. He left her screaming. It was a ghost; a monster! It wasn’t real! But no doubt it was goddamn _sexy_. Her terror congregated the minds of the concerned and the only soul who actually stepped forward to ask questions was Dean. When all he received was a whole lot of nothing, a predictable location of hiding popped into his head and immediately he took action.  
  
The entrance door slammed shut behind him and rattled enthusiastically, silencing the car park as he plucked the keys from his front pocket and inserted them into the lock. He threw the trench coat aimlessly within the cabin before stepping in. When he turned the ignition, air caught into his throat upon the abrupt discovery of a silhouette on the edge of his peripherals.  
  
“ _Damnit_ , Cas!” Dean quickly thwacked the steering wheel and pinched the bridge of his nose. Cas waited patiently for his friend to calm down before he erupted again. “What the hell was that? _Again_?”  
  
The angel remained silent. It’s not that he sensed the discipline; he understood the stomach fluids breaking down the litres of alcohol and that this wasn’t exactly Dean talking. The man glanced at him accusingly.  
  
“Now, I thought you were kind of like one of those ‘under-cover agents’ or something, or cops that disguise their cars as regular, everyday cars - and don’t reveal themselves like some Superhero. Those guys never reveal their true identity. Never. And I’m pretty sure you suddenly disappearing begs for attention.”  
  
“I panicked.” Cas answered simply, to alleviate Dean’s fussing. But it didn’t and Dean faced him full-on with his foot forced down into the edge of the passenger seat.  
  
“ _You_ panicked? _You_ of all people?” (His face softened, acknowledging his err.) “Ahh… Angels. I meant angels.” He paused, not really thinking. His eyes lost focus and he speaks slowly. “So how was it? Besides the whole ‘oh no gotta run’ part?”  
  
“In the moment I finally registered her,” Cas began slowly, staring out beyond the windshield with a soft, pensive gaze “I realized I wanted nothing to do with her; had no reason to be with her. Then I thought - What exactly is virginity? A concept constructed by humans to merely mock those who have yet to-”  
  
“ _Gaaay_ ” Cas’ eyes narrowed quizzically at Dean, unsure of his terminology.  
  
“How would you delineate that?”  
  
“Gay. Your ass is gayer than Richard Simmons.”  
  
“Who?”  
  
The man muttered and waved his hand dismissively (there was a flash of a smirk but it went unnoticed), returning properly into the driver’s seat where he revved the engine. His key missed a few times and he turned it the wrong way at first, and the Impala jerked forward like an amateur driver before they finally swerved onto the road. If Cas understood the concept well enough (and if he were human), he would have been terrified for his and Dean’s life. In fact, he wouldn’t have even let Dean start the car. He loves this transportation device as if it were his own offspring, Castiel pondered; and if those stories were true, not only is Dean’s life in danger, but the Impala’s is too. Could I prevent that fate from occurring, considering the current conditions? Cas peeked over toward Dean who’s eyes (though glassy and hazed) studied the road with over-exuberance.  
  
The street lights flickered on as they drove and if Cas knew any better, he would be extremely thankful that the road wasn’t too busy tonight. Occasionally, the Impala would spill onto the following lane, and if they were in Europe, they wouldn’t need to worry about on-coming death. Dean muttered an empty apology as he returned to the right and that’s when Cas noticed the man’s drooping eyelids. The angel kept still and tight, not knowing what to do. Should he say something and point out Dean’s noticeably unsafe driving habits? Or do nothing and hope for the best? Certainly Dean’s capable of driving. The Impala is basically his motor home: and in addition, Cas has safely sat next to Dean in the car numerous amounts of times. This instance could not fair any differently. Although Cas can’t shake the undying feeling of doubt as Dean’s head bobs lazily to a silent tune with enervated eyes. He gradually begins to lean against the window and his fingers gently uncurl from the steering wheel. This behaviour is new and questionable. Cas almost decides to poke him but the flood of red and flashing yellow distracts him. Beyond Dean is a large car. It’s menacing and notwithstanding. It’s close. Too close. Cas glances his fingers over Dean’s shoulder and he’s driving. Clueless, the angel haphazardly turns the wheel opposite the sparks flying the side of the car and sharply lurches the Impala to the right. The wheels quickly meet mud and dirt. Screeching tires against asphalt in the distance. The Impala dodges the blur of foliage and Cas slams his foot down on a pedal, knowing nothing of its impact. Everything lunges forward and twigs snap and explode. A large glowing tree rushes to greet them but then paralyses and sparks and the ugly sound of metal-against-metal fills the air. An aching silence pervades through the cabin. Worried, Cas turns his full attention onto an awakening Dean. The airbags burst before Cas can get close and in a fit of surprise, the angel pops the balloons and hears a sharp, alarmed gasp.  
  
“What the hell did you do to my baby?!” The man shrieks and hurriedly clambers out his side of the car, and as soon as he’s out, he’s holding his head with both hands, gliding his fingers over the broken plastic of the nose of the Impala. Any hope or drunken happiness that he had in him before suddenly drains from his face and he drops to his knees (forcing the mud to crater on impact) and curls over onto the impaired hood. Castiel appears behind him and in a need to comfort his friend, he reaches down and pats the man’s back. “I am sorry for your loss, Dean.”  
  
With his deep grainy, monotonous voice, he almost sounds like he doesn’t mean it. But Dean doesn’t let it bother him. Instead, he continues to mourn, despite the fact that he and Cas both know of Dean’s ability to fix the Impala like new.  
  
“I could always fix it for you…” Castiel suggests to Dean’s back. The man shakes his head and promises he’ll do it himself. However, a thought rushes into the angel’s mind: with Bobby’s house burnt down, where will Dean get the supplies and work space? Surely this idea has crossed his mind before… “Dean…” (No response) “Dean, with the power invested in me, I vow that I will fix the damage I have created. Right now I believe, in such a situation, that it is essential for you to return to the motel and consider your current condition and state of being.”  
  
The angel reaches down, preparing for Dean’s leave, but his hand is smacked away. “I can’t leave,” the man gruffly mutters, still tracing his fingers across the dents “Not yet. You can’t use your angel mojo on me. Not yet…Not yet…”  
  
His voice withers and he keeps still, protecting his broken mechanical offspring as if Castiel had the motive to take it away from him completely and throw out every memory. Cas is aware of this falsity and knows Dean knows that he wouldn’t dare. Instead, Cas stands behind the man and waits with great patience. Watching nothing happen. Waiting. Waiting until Dean turns to his right and collapses to the ground with his eyes shut. His legs bend awkwardly and his chin rests on his left shoulder toward the tree. The angel squints in confusion. Is now really the appropriate time to rest (again)? Don’t humans traditionally sleep in beds, and not within a pool of wet dirt? This man is full of surprises.

  
* * *

The moon reflects across the Impala’s clean surface - or what’s left of it. It shines in scattered light from the leaves above. Castiel ignores the new moon and continues stirring Dean from his inebriated slumber, pushing softly at his torso and sternly repeating his name. In the pit of his stomach (or Jimmy’s), the angel can’t find himself to ensorcel his friend awake in any other way. He just knows Dean wouldn’t appreciate it otherwise. That was a promise made long ago.  
  
Hours linger and the sun threatens to brighten the skies until Castiel rises from the mud and decides to better his time with research. It’s what Hunters do, right? With haste, the angel disappears and flocks to every library known to man about the subject of waking. It doesn’t take him long (in human’s perception of time) to return, knowledgeable especially to the story called ‘Sleeping Beauty.’ Everything about the story seems relevant: Dean, the princess, has been cursed by alcoholic beverages to sleep for a hundred years. He slumbers, waiting for Castiel, the prince, to come along and save him with his lips which will be the key to his awakening. Cas must experiment at once!  
  
Quickly, he kneels down before the princess and just as quickly becomes consumed with hesitation. He’s never done something so interactive, so intimate before. Not with Dean. But is now really the time to indulge such sudden human impulses? The angel bests himself and ignores all diverting thoughts: it’s time to wake the princess! He shifts his face closer and can almost smell the alcohol in the man’s sweat. Their noses glance at the tip and he is corrupt without warning like a nervous spokesperson in front of an audience of five hundred. He parts his dry lips ajar, unaware of the exact action he must take to release Dean from his drunken spell. Castiel’s eyes rake over the gently shut lids, down his bold cheekbones and ending at his pink mouth which exhausts clouds that embrace the angel and warm his flesh at every breath. This man is beautiful: never once appreciated quite like this, never like this. Freckles that Castiel never properly discerned peppered quietly before him, the way his damp brown hair wisped and fuddled over the edge of his forehead (it was messy but it suited him), the faint creases above his thick brows, and the highlights in his skin from the moon’s grace: such undermined beauty. How could something so obvious go so unnoticed?  
  
No more distractions! The princess shall awaken! The angel nods his head closer like a dog ready to cuddle, and tickles the tips of their lips before closing his mouth over the other’s, slowly letting them slide off each other, feeling the soft, plush skin leave his own. The feeling is odd and new;    unimaginable and nothing Castiel has ever experienced in his eternal life. The taste is bitter, he recalls, but the feeling drowns him in inspiration. He connects their mouths again, eager for more of this splendor. He wants Dean to wake and experience this with him, to feel exactly what he’s feeling, despite the mud on their clothes and a broken metalic baby. His chest presses into the man’s knee and Cas shifts it aside to sneak in closer. He never realised how warm humans could be. He wanted to bathe in it, savour the sensation and preserve it forever.  
  
Lifeless lips flicker beneath the angel’s and he can’t help but smile delightfully, however; at the same time fill with subtle astonishment as the sensation corrupts his concentration. They squeeze at Castiel’s bottom lip and suck - hard enough to conjure withdrawal, but a pressure at his nape anchors him. Snakes slither between his dark locks and inspire him closer, indulging in the intimacy. Mixed feelings rush into Castiel’s mind whether this change of pace is enjoyable or frightening. The thin, pink flesh of his vessel’s lips bruise under the man’s fantasies. A bruise is painful. A kiss isn’t. How does this make any sense? The angel basks in the pleasantries despite.  
  
His sides are held loosely but securely and the sensation freely glides through the underside of his blazer. Human warmth skitters across his white button-up shirt methodically and enthusiastically. Physical pressure runs down his back and end at his ass. A brief thought of retirement flickers into the angel’s mind but he can’t execute the action. His lower lip is bitten and he shuts his mouth over the pursuer until a bitter tasting tongue wrestles into him. It traces his teeth and teases his tongue. The alcohol is strong; strong enough to infect. Instead, he advances toward his friend, placing the flat of his hand into the man’s inner thigh to regain balance. He can hear him give a light chuckle against his lips and the angel smiles gratefully in return and begins to relax.  
  
While Castiel’s free hand presses into Dean’s pectoral, Dean tightly slips beneath the hem of Jimmy’s black suit pants, enticing a small light-hearted gasp from the angel. Dean hums lazily in satisfaction and wedges two fingers down between Castiel’s cheeks. A pleasant shock rushes up and down his spine and he’s not sure what that means or how to respond. Instead, his thumb curls into Dean’s thigh and accidentally slips closer to his loins. “Don’t be shy” the man whispers groggily with a sloppy smile while working his other hand at Cas’ button and zipper. Meanwhile, he abandons the angel’s lips, leaving them in awe and saliva, and begins tracing kisses down the angel’s neck until he’s beside his laryngeal prominence where he grazes his teeth over the soft flesh and sucks hard. To leave a mark of proof. His hand slides easily further down until his finger meets his entrance. The sensation flickers waves of pleasure but Castiel gasps once more and can’t decide on anything. He’s about to release his undying, bickering thoughts, giving up on deciphering the situation and all accompanying actions until the world lights up and the branches pop.  
  
“I-I don’t mean to, uh… spoil the party, but…” A woman begins to say, with the least bit of authority in her voice. Dean slides his hands further down, exposing Cas’ ass to the voice behind him. He laughs and mutters something huskily; his eyes glassy and his mind in another world. He plants another kiss to Cas’ jaw and licks up to his ear. The voice clears her throat and Dean bites into the earlobe: Castiel, with his concerned brows and half-lidded eyes, grunts with a shutter, confused by his own unexpected guttural response before pulling himself away, sensing the imminent danger posed within that woman’s presence. He turns and restores his trousers into their proper place, fighting off Dean’s needy drunken hands. The angel stands and the woman, clad in that of typical police uniform in the dead of winter, has her face occupied in crimson. She’s flustered but she has a job to do. Castiel stares quizzically, feeling the sharp, cold air dry his ear, neck, and lips.  
  
“There is no party currently in process within the area, ma’am.” The angel points out as if it were obvious, but the woman breathes deeply and unevenly and avoids eye-contact. What an interesting response. Do all humans react the same as she to such a situation? “Only the sexual intimacy and connection between two beings in human engagement.”  
  
“Uhm…” The woman begins but Dean yells out slurred obscenities before falling further into the mud. “You…I…T-There was…” (She searches strenuously within her mind for business related words, her countenance twitching at every wrong corner she turns. The policewoman finally looks up at Castiel’s dark, wild hair once she thinks she’s got an idea) “There has been a…uh…crash report and…i-it, uhm. Certainly is a…crash - here.” (She swallows hard and clears his throat again to reassure herself) “There seems to be no damage to the person who reported…this. So, uh…I can just…tow your car and…send you two home - if that sounds satisfying - I mean satisfactory! No! In good flavour - Favour!”  
  
The angel squints hard at her, wondering at her stutter and hesitation and spurts of quick speech. He considers briefly to decline whatever her offer is and return to the motel at his own pace with Dean, but he thinks twice, recalling both his promise and the state of the Impala. She wants to toe away the Impala: exactly what Dean fears. But Castiel can’t very well execute that plan of action. Not unless he wants Dean to awaken in pitiful anger. “I do not believe that that will be very suiting in consideration to my inebriated friend here.” Castiel explains thoughtfully and flattens his hand like an escort to tourists, toward Dean who sits with half his face implanted in mud, drooling, fast asleep. The angel turns back toward the wrecked Impala and approaches the wedge between it and the owner while the policewoman watches in scrutiny, her face still red and one of her hands touching her face anxiously. She observes the black suited man bend over, just enough to reach out within arms-length to make contact with the crashed vehicle and the sleeping drunk man. And that’s exactly what the dark haired fellow does and she couldn’t register in time that there no longer was something in the mud before her and a tree with a sharp awkward dent in it with penetrated bark. The moon no longer seemed as bright and she blinks, the suffusion draining from her cheeks, and in enters a pummeling of confusion.

* * *

The three appear in the car park. The motel lights are dim and the Impala appears as if it crashed into an invisible force. Still, it reflects the moon beautifully. A long, grey exhaust escapes Castiel’s lips along with a usual look of concentration, yet physically deterred. The princess must be saved, however: the angel lifts the drunken man’s lifeless body easily, cradling him like a bride. Quickly, he finds their suite and raps the point of his dress shoe tiredly on the wood, breathing heavily with laboured gasps, until Sam opens the door, suddenly consumed with confusion by what’s before him. Dean’s head lulls over Castiel’s arm and he makes sure not to let him collide into the frame as he enters; Sam making way and shutting the door behind them.  
  
“Cas,” Sam starts with a hint of frivolity, almost scoffing until he notices the dirt caked on their clothes and the superior concern in Castiel’s face that suggests there had been trouble on their adventure. Instantly, Sam knows how to treat the situation and an air of seriousness befalls upon him. “What the Hell happened? Cas?”  
  
Dean is freshly laid out on his bed, his legs sort of spilling off the side of the mattress, mud smearing across the sheets. A small grimace forms on Sam’s mouth but it vanishes when Cas completes his duty. Their eyes meet, but only momentarily before the angel looks away in…shame, guilt? What exactly happened besides imbibing copious amounts of alcohol? They couldn’t have…drove all the way here, had they? With that idea in mind, it seems obvious now: Castiel doesn’t understand the rules to the road, he wouldn’t have prevented Dean from getting into the Impala. But why would Dean risk his pride and joy like that? Why not let Cas just use his angel mojo and be here without a second thought? “Cas?” Sam asks cautiously with that thoughtful look in his brows, casting deep creasing arcs along his forehead, “Cas, tell me exactly what happened. Did you encounter something? Or did Dean do something stupid?”  
  
It took him a moment, but a face-splitting grin breaks out onto Castiel’s lips. A grin full of secret pride. Sam hesitantly smirks at this, unsure whether there is meant to be an awaiting silly punchline or if Cas is being creepy.  
  
“Dean and I…” The angel begins, eyeing the room happily, almost like a teenage girl who’s freshly fallen in love “Had a magnificent experience together that I believe Dean wouldn’t want the details to be revealed. Especially to you, Sam. I am endearingly sorry but it is not my wish to envelope you into further confusion than what is currently presented to you.” Perhaps that grin was meant to be hidden. And before Sam can make his retort, the room is empty, as if Dean had stumbled into their suite alone.

* * *

Comparing this feeling to the vampiric experience he had in the past is impossible. The blood rushing to his head (not exactly loud), then without warning disappears, like a receding tide. When his eyes crack open, he is convinced the sun couldn’t get any brighter. Since when was he outside, anyway? The wind, although dull to the touch, ringed in the distance, the wild life chirped and bustled about, as if his body was laid down in a cylindrical tunnel. The surrounding chronic pain in his stomach was the last thing he noticed. His muscles felt like dough and his head made of concrete. His toes were non-existent, and still, he couldn’t feel completely there. Where was he? The lining in his stomach couldn’t take much more of this internal war: he turned onto his left shoulder and instead of a gentle curve of the cylinder, it was plush and shaped to his weight, and worst of all: wet, but oddly warm - the kind that when someone spills soup on you and at first it’s sort of nice (it’s winter, after-all: being covered in hot soup is like being tucked into bed after your mum kisses you goodnight), but then the blanket is ripped off and you find yourself stuck in a heavy snow storm on top of Mount Rainier. Naked.  
  
Now his mouth tasted bitter and his throat aching in such intensity, nothing could ease his pain. He’d be like this forever. The air smelled rank and a squishy rock pressed into his cheek. That’s when he noticed his feet weren’t touching the ground. But he wasn’t floating. Had he died? Is this what the new brand of Hell is like? For him and only him shall he experience this? The entirety of his head pounded. Noise pricked at his ears like a nest of baby birds and you got too close and they think your ear drums are food. If he had fingers, they were made of dirt, the kind that begins drying after you’ve watered them and everything contracts and makes you feel like the dirtiest son of a bitch alive. The grime digs deep under your nails, no matter how short you cut them and makes every orifice feel tight and bloated. The clothes on his shoulders felt like bricks with the motive to kill. He didn’t want to open his eyes again, in fear the sun might catch him. Or Hell will catch him.  
  
The birds flapped their wings like crinkled paper, muttering something about current events. What advanced birds that live here! Still, that doesn’t sound quite right…. I’m pretty sure birds can’t speak English, Dean thinks through the burning aluminium in his head. He’ll dare the sun again and hopefully won’t be punished like the first time. Slowly, he eases his eyes open: the outlines of furniture and window panes begin to take shape, but Dean can’t be fooled that easily. He blinks his eyes to adjust and peers through the slit between his lids and he can just make out a window and…a very large silhouette beside it. Long hair…Is it that lady? Did she come to visit? But why? She’s reading the…paper? So birds _haven’t_ advanced yet into civilized humanity. Darn. That would have been pretty neat.  
  
His joints pop as he rises from the cushioned Hell and everything goes blurry and grey but he can still see the barf on the bed with the outline of his profile against the sculptured muck. His head is like a balloon though his vision slowly returns and the world and all her noise envelopes Dean in a pounding rhythm and his lips are sore and he still can’t feel his body that much. The heel of his palm rubs into his eye socket, trying to fend off the grey and the blur until maybe colour replaces it.  
  
“Had a nice nap?” That’s not a lady’s voice. Unless Sam’s here too? Oh fuck why.  
  
“Not so loud, bitch.” Dean grimaces and rubs his other eye while stretching his free arm. Sam and his own voice intertwine within his skull and rake across his brain and immediately he wishes he hadn’t said anything. His stomach feels way too empty. He wants to ask why he’s like this but hesitates.  
  
“What’s this I read about in the paper, jerk?” Sam speaks just above a whisper and adjusts the paper in his hands. His voice is like needles but Dean’ll give him an A for effort, that selfish Uni prick. He rubs his hands across his face one more time until he’s ready to meet the sun-lit room. It’s not so bad. Not as bad as being a vampire. Nothing can compare, really.  
  
“You’re gonna have to try better than that, Sammy,” Dean retorts as if it were second nature and wipes whatever sick was on his hands over his jeans. Since when were they this muddy? “And what about the paper? Find a case or something?”  
  
“If you consider a case involving you and ‘another man found at a crash site in intercourse,’ then yes, I did.” Sam smirks at himself before Dean snaps his attention at the word ‘another man.’  
  
“I know you’re yelling right now but did I actually hear you right?” Dean picks one of his ears for emphasis, although he already knows before Sam repeats it: turning the newspaper and pointing it at his older brother, an indicating finger tracing the words of a title in big black letters. “Two Men Found at a Crash Site in Intercourse.” Dean’s jaw drops, knowing at least one of the men in that title; and that being him. But who was the other guy? It couldn’t have been some male hooker: he was at a female strip joint. Or at least…that’s what he thought? He looks up into a devious smile.  
  
“I had the idea but I didn’t think you guys were actually…that close.” Sam remarked, putting the paper on the table and replacing it with his mug of coffee. Dean watches, completely filled with confusion. What happened last night and who was this ‘other dude?’ Last time he checked, he wasn’t gay. Was he slipped something? Knocked unconscious somehow? Dean asks his brother this and Sam chuckles knowingly. _Secretive little fuck._  
  
“Cas.” He says with a whimsical smile: he hasn’t been this happy in a while. If Dean didn’t feel like utter shit and not accused of being gay at the moment, he’d be happy for him. But wait, what? Castiel? What about him…?  
  
“I’m not fucking gay for Cas!” Dean refutes, loud enough for it to crack; but his brain takes the beating and he can’t find himself to endure it. His hands find his head and his fingers curl into his too short of hair. Dark, thick hair. Always neat and smooth. Never smells like anything, despite how much he goes through while hunting. In fact, he never smells like anything in general. _Son of a goddamn bitch…._  
  
“Facts are facts, Dean,” Sam smiles like a cheeky, sarcastic bastard, “The newspaper says what the newspaper says. They’re always right, you know.”  
  
“A goddamn newspaper can’t prove I’m gay. That’s bull.” Dean directs his eyes sharply onto his brother, ready to make his sentiment, “That wasn’t Cas,”  
  
“Oh?” He obviously isn’t convinced.  
  
”’ _He_ ’ was a woman I must have picked up at the strip club. I was wasted, man, give me a damn break.”  
  
“Cas is a woman, now?” Sam asks incredulously, smirking away, folding his arms over his chest. “Your imagination is more thorough than I thought it was, Dean.”  
  
“Not like that, you sick fuck.” Dean remarks bitterly, pinching the bridge of his nose, avoiding the blinding lights in the room. “You know what I goddamn meant, bitch.”  
  
“I don’t know, Dean, the whole situation, what with the title on that newspaper; all seems pretty low-quality porno to me.” Sam scoffs and returns to his seat, sipping away at his coffee. Looking so pleased with himself. Fuck. “Oh,” the younger of the two continues, “How’s the Impala, by the way?”  
  
Dean’s eyes flare. Immediately, he glances at the window, panic-stricken, before rushing up to it, slamming his hands onto the sill. He can just see the rear of the Impala. Everything’s fine so far… The Hunter swings the front door open and a rush of blistering cold stabs into his flesh, but he ignores it as best he can. The sun is so fucking bright and his footsteps are so loud and the birds are like sirens. The Impala! My baby! Dean rushes up to it in clumsy footing. The ground must have iced over or something. The Impala looks worse than she ever has. My poor baby…  
  
Before Dean goes to touch, it almost feels like he can’t, as if he’s not suppose to.  
  
“Dean,” The man turns at his name and like every other time, he jumps out of his skin. It’s Cas. “I’ve come to fulfill my promise. Please, move aside.”  
  
“Every _fucking_ time, Cas!” Dean yells with one eye shut. He throws his arms in the air. “Did you do this? Did you harm such an innocent, beautiful creature?”  
  
“I know how much the Impala means to you, Dean,” Cas starts, putting out a pacifying hand in front of him. “But please, allow me to—”  
  
“I’m not gay, Cas! No newspaper can prove that!” The man smacks at Cas’ hand. The skin on his palm prickles at the touch. “That was a woman, for God’s sake! I was sure of it.”  
  
“Dean…”  
  
“That wasn’t you, man. Sam told me about what I might have done the other night, but I’m pretty 99.9 per cent sure I wasn’t having sex with you.” His voice is high and hysterical. Are those tears?  
  
“Dean, I don’t understand,” Cas, turning his head to one side, furrowing his brows, oblivious to Dean’s behaviour. What exactly is wrong here? “What happened last night was nothing to be ashamed of. Being gay is nothing to be ashamed of. No sexuality is something to be ashamed of.”  
  
“Shut the fuck up: you don’t know anything about human sexuality.” Dean hisses bitterly, raking his fingers through his hair until he retracts his hands as if his scalp were electrified.  
  
“I know enough through you, Dean,”  
  
“Christ….”  
  
“And I know that love is nothing to ridiculed for. If you love someone, that love should matter only to you and your partner. There should be no shame in that whatsoever.” Cas says lowly, stepping cautiously toward Dean who’s staring at his hands miserably. He inches closer, enough to make contact. “Last night was special. Special for both of us. I may not have taken on the form of a woman, but that shouldn’t jeopardize our bond.”  
  
“God, Cas, you sound so gay…” They catch each other’s eyes finally and Dean’s eyebrows lift partially, not enough to make it obvious; noticing his personal space being violated - typically. The features on Cas have softened significantly and influences Dean to do the same. He’s beginning to let go. The angel advances, gliding his hands the way Dean had from the other night. The familiar movement flattens Dean’s defensive barrier into a sheet of paper. His ears are surrounded in the angel’s divine warmth. _Tracing paper._ He can feel his breath. _It’s almost nothing_. A glance of their lips. _It’s torn to shreds._ A nibble to his lip. _He can’t help himself. Fuck_. He grabs at Cas’ cheeks and forces him away. The cold immediately attacks his lonesome lips and Dean almost regrets his action. The angel gives him such a fierce, serious look; his brows flat, almost arched downward, his blue eyes dark and bold, his mouth relaxed but attentive. Damn. The hairs beneath Dean’s palm tickle at his skin and it’s doubtlessly alluring. The acknowledgment of temptation makes him stop, however.  
  
As if the angel could read minds, he drifts out of Dean’s hold and stands by the Impala, extending a hand to it like a dutiful soldier. He turns back, his eyes so powerful, his promise now fulfilled - Dean can’t do anything.  
  
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Dean.”  
  
And it was as if Dean were standing outside in a car park beside his baby in the bitter cold, his trousers covered in mud and his shirt in his own sick with the over-powering feeling of loneliness corrupting his brain. There’s a slight red stain to his lips from Cas from the lady of the night before. His hands have minute traces of his sick on the palm. His headache has lifted and nothing ached. Never ached. But nothing could heal the regret which panged throughout his body.  
  
The Impala sat there, shiny and new. It almost glowed beneath the sun.  
  
He didn’t deserve this.


End file.
